The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(130)

I ordered a vodka on the rocks from the cocktail waitress, and just as she was leaving, I stopped her and said, "Actually, can you just bring me two? It'll save us both time."

"Two?" a man's voice said in an American accent. I looked up anxiously in hopes that it might be Jamie.

I saw a tall stranger standing in front of me, holding a half-empty glass of ice and brown liquid. He smiled at me and suavely started swirling the drink around in his glass.

I quickly looked away and rolled my eyes.

"May I sit down?" he asked, hardly waiting for my response and sliding into the booth next to me.

"Now's really not the time," I warned him.

"A fellow American," he ventured, ignoring my comment and placing his glass on the table in front of us.

"Yeah, that's right," I said coldly.

"Bad night?" he asked with such obvious feigned concern that it made me want to break out in a loud, sadistic laugh.

"Look, I am in no mood for company, so if you could just—"

"I can make it better," he offered quickly.

I stared at him skeptically. "And how on earth could you possibly do that?"

His eyes swept the room cautiously and then leaned in closer to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. It smelled like whiskey. "I can make up for your lost time, I mean."

I pulled my head away to avoid catching another whiff of his breath and threw my hands up in the air, exasperated. "What the f*ck are you talking about?"

The man flashed a patient smile. "I mean, I can pay you double. Triple, even."

I looked down again at my outfit and immediately knew what he was getting at. I rolled my eyes. It certainly wasn't the first time someone had confused me for a prostitute. "I am not a hooker!" I shouted loudly with frustration, causing the entire bar to turn and stare.

But I didn't care. Not in the slightest. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore. Not even sitting in one of the classiest, most elegant hotel bars in Paris in my black lace underwear, announcing to anyone and everyone that the man next to me thought I was a hooker (and probably with good reason). I just wanted eleven o'clock to arrive so I could climb into the fluffy white hotel sheets and cry myself to sleep.

Was that so much to ask for?

The man turned to me, horrified and speechless, and then quickly stood up and bolted from the room.

I sat back against the booth and crossed my arms over my chest. This was turning out to be quite the night.

"I thought this might make you more comfortable, mademoiselle."

I looked up to see the front-desk clerk standing over me with a white hotel robe hanging from the tip of his index finger.

I smiled and thanked him graciously. Both with my words and my eyes. He seemed to understand my appreciation explicitly as he bowed his head. "You are quite welcome."

I slid on the robe and immediately felt more comfortable. I allowed my head to drop back onto the top of the booth and I spread my arms out to my sides.

The waitress soon came with both of my drinks and I reached into my bag and handed her a fifty-euro bill. She took it and disappeared. I downed the first drink like a shot and then sat back and held the second one in my hands, staring at it. Waiting for it to turn into the salvation I needed.

By the time eleven o'clock rolled around and the clerk reentered the lounge, I was still holding my untouched drink, steady as a rock. There wasn't even the slightest ripple in the surface of the clear liquid.

"Mademoiselle?" the clerk's voice woke me from a trance, causing my hand to jerk up suddenly, spilling a small amount of alcohol on my fingers and some on the hotel robe.

I popped my fingertip in my mouth and sucked off the vodka. "Yes?" I asked anxiously.

"As you requested, your room is ready."

"Thank God!" I exclaimed, jumping up and quickly downing the drink in my hand. I grabbed my bag and headed out of the bar, purposely ignoring the clerk's somewhat appalled reaction toward my blatant disrespect for France's finest vodka.



AS SOON as I was alone in my room, I ransacked the minibar. I had sent the bellhop to Jamie's room to gather my belongings, and by the time the long-awaited knock came at the door, I was already surrounded by three empty mini-bottles of Grey Goose. The best French-made export, as far as I was concerned at the moment.

I opened the door for him and watched as he carried in my luggage and placed it near the closet.

"Was there a message?" I asked hopefully.

He clearly did not understand what I was requesting. "A message, Madame?" he repeated in a thick accent.

"From the man in the room. Did he tell you to tell me anything?"

He shook his head, confused. "No, madame, za room waz empty."

"Empty?" I asked in disbelief, and stepped closer to him. "You mean no one was in there?"

I could tell the desperate, half-intoxicated look on my face was making him uncomfortable. Not to mention my proximity to his body.

"Nobody. And no... zing," he said cautiously, shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" My voice cracked with fear.

"Uh, empty?" he repeated again, apparently concerned that maybe he wasn't translating his thought into the correct English word. "Vide," he reaffirmed in French.

There it was. I knew what both words meant. In both languages. Because they meant the same thing: Jamie had left. He had taken everything but my things. And God knows where he had gone.